


Harmony

by lady_deathangel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pack Feels, Pegging, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_deathangel/pseuds/lady_deathangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Malia try something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> Well. This was unexpected. Written in response to [this post](http://affectingly.tumblr.com/post/90435088671) on tumblr. I looked it over but there wasn't a beta so any and all mistakes are mine. Also this was the first time I wrote a pegging scene. Or, I think, a rimming scene. So huzzah for firsts (mine and Stiles/Malia's)!

"I want to mount you," Malia says, apropos of absolutely fucking nothing.

It takes a few seconds for the words to register and another minute before the mental images in Stiles' brain recede enough for him to be able to function.

Malia just waits him out, used to his occasional need to reboot (her words, not his, surprisingly enough). When he's back online, Stiles looks up and sees her perched on the edge of his bed, surrounded by loose-leaf pages covered in colorful notes and doodles, an intensely sincere look on her face.

"Um," Stiles manages. 

She raises her eyebrows when he doesn't say anything more substantial than that.

"Well?" she asks.

"Well what?"

"Can I?"

Her tone is its own special brand of impatient and curious and considerate, the same way it always is when they talk about sex. It's like she knows what she wants and wants it  _now_  but she also wants to know what Stiles thinks about it and understands (after a few very long, very awkward conversations about consent that Stiles didn't feel qualified to be having without the aid of five different tumblr blogs open in ten different tabs) that sometimes she and Stiles will want different things and that's okay.

As many times as they've engaged in shockingly adult discussions about what they'd like to do with each other's bodies, she tends to spring things on him like this without any warning and it always takes Stiles a few minutes to organize his thoughts. At least she doesn't do it at the lunch table anymore.

That had been an awkward couple of weeks.

"Stiles," she says, jarring him out of his thought-spiral. "Is it . . . is it okay? That I want that?"

"Of course," Stiles blurts out. "I mean. You want me willing, right?"

She rolls her eyes so hard he's surprised she doesn't fall off the bed.

"Then yeah," Stiles hurries to add. "Yeah. It's okay that you want that."

"Okay," she says slowly. "And do you want that, too?"

Stiles' immediate reaction is to say yes, of course,  _duh_. Except they've set up a system - a sixty second minimum for considering any propositions that they might otherwise rush into. 

It was Scott's idea, actually. In fact, he'd kind of insisted.

(And what an interesting conversation  _that_  had been, having to sit down with his best friend and admit that he'd had sex and then go over the circumstances and then admit that he didn't remember everything clearly.

At that point, they'd been interrupted by a panic attack. But just a tiny one and at the time, in the wake of the Nogitsune, it hadn't even been the worst one Stiles'd had that  _week_.

After, though, when Stiles admitted that he and Malia had kind of hooked up again and it had been better but still . . . still not quite right the way Stiles had always imagined it to be, Scott had turned into a fucking sex guru.

"It's okay if it feels weird," he'd said. "Sex  _is_  weird. But it should be good, you know? Maybe you and Malia should slow down? Or, like, talk it out. She's kinda new to all of this."

"God, don't remind me. I feel like such a creep sometimes."

"Yeah, you definitely need to talk about it."

And then Scott had given Stiles advice and he's been checking in ever since and it should be weird, maybe, but they're bros for one thing. For another, Scott's their alpha. Yeah, Stiles is helping Malia adjust to life as a human but she and Scott are helping him figure out what it means to be in a pack, too.)

Anyway, it's what Stiles and Malia do, now. They both have a little bit of a problem with being impulsive and sex is complicated and both of them are kind of fucked up and so they talk about what they want, they ask for what they want, and they take at least a solid minute to think it over before answering.

It's possible Scott had suggested a longer time limit but the impulsive thing. They're working on it.

Malia's practically buzzing on the bed, all nerves and adrenaline. Stiles can't look at her or he'll get distracted so he swings his desk chair around, frowns at his laptop, his history notes, considers what she's asking and tries to figure out how he feels about it.

Not surprised, actually, when he thinks about it. About the way she spoons up behind him, arm tight around his waist and teeth blunt against the back of his neck. The way he sometimes wakes up with her plastered against his back, hips rutting against his in soft, needy circles while she makes tiny, happy growls in her sleep.

Stiles would like to say it makes him uncomfortable or at least gives him pause. Most of the time he just tips his ass back against the cradle of her thighs and nuzzles back into his pillow and catches a few more hours of sleep. It feels  _good_. When she does that, when she pins him down and holds him there, he's safe and protected. 

And that's just in the hazy middle hours of deep night and early morning. Stiles imagines it like this, both of them awake and naked, her eyes flashing blue the way they do sometimes, her fingers digging bruises into his hips while she presses him into the mattress and fucks him hard and fast and desperate.

"Yes," Stiles croaks out, heart in his throat and belly fizzing with something that isn't quite run-of-the-mill arousal.

Malia shifts on the bed, body tensing up like she's just smelled prey and wants to pounce. Stiles isn't at all shocked at how hot that makes him.

"Sure?"

"Yeah. But, uh. How do we . . . ?" Stiles trails off and gestures between the two of them.

"Easy. Lydia took me shopping so I've got everything we need," she tells him.

Stiles groans and hides his face in his hands because  _of course_.

"Stiles?"

"Just gimme a minute," he says.

He can practically hear Malia shrug as she returns to her homework, relaxed and humming now that this has been settled. Stiles can't help but smile to himself in response.

_._

  
Stiles sets the date. Malia thinks it's only fair. He smells aroused when they talk about it again, driving to school the next morning. But he smells like something else, too. Something that makes Malia want to climb up behind him and hug him tight and growl at anyone who comes too close.

Not  _prey_ , not in the strictest sense of it. Just. Vulnerable.

She likes the smell but it's delicate, could become fear if she's not careful. It has before. Not often but there have been times they've been together and Stiles' scent has spiked with something that made her scramble back, breathless and scared, hands hovering just over his body with the need to soothe.

"I'm fine," he'd always say, but he also never complained when she inched closer and wrapped her arms around him and pet his chest until he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Malia doesn't look at Stiles and see someone fragile, but she sees all the places where he's breakable and she wants to keep him safe, protect him from anything that might hurt him even if it's herself. Especially then.

He says he wants what she wants and she believes him, senses the truth of it. But that means he should decide when and where and how. He's giving her something precious, something she never thought she could have. Just the anticipation has made her feel more whole than anything else since Scott roared her back into this body and dragged her back to humanity.

Stiles says the weekend so Malia waits, patient but restless. Increasingly needy. She slips into his room at night and can't even fuck him because her body thrums and pulses for something else, for the thing she's been waiting for since the mating instinct first struck. 

Instead she spoons up behind him, slips a hand in his boxers and curls her fingers around his cock, slender and long and pretty, and jerks him off slow and merciless. She sucks bruises into the back of his neck, leaves his skin soaked in her scent, brings her hand up for him to lick all over until her grip is slick and he's reduced to gasping moans and breathless pleas.

He comes when she tells him to. He always does and she hides her grin in his shoulder.

He offers to return the favor but she doesn't want him to. When she comes, she'll be inside of him, stretched out over him, and she can wait until then.

"You okay?" Scott asks on Friday morning.

"What? Why?" Malia asks.

Scott nods down at her legs. They're practically vibrating. She tries to still them and ends up tapping her fingers on the desk instead.

"I think Stiles is rubbing off on you," Scott says with a crooked grin.

There's something about the way he looks at her that means she's probably  missing something. She can figure it out later. For now, she leans forward and says in a voice soft enough only Scott can hear, "I'm going to fuck him tomorrow."

Scott laughs and says, "Don't you guys do that kind of regularly?"

"Not like  _that_ ," Malia says. "I'm going to. You know.  _Me_."

Scott looks confused for a handful of seconds and Malia thinks she'll need to spell it out before his eyes widen and he looks impressed. And something else. Something that makes her coyote want to  yip and dance and rub up against her alpha's side in contentment, like she's done something right. Something good.

"Nervous?"

Malia shrugs and Scott grins, warm and kind.

"You'll be a natural," he says. "Trust me."

And then the rest of the class filters in. Lydia and Stiles have their heads bent close together but he looks up like he always does, seeks Malia out mid-sentence, and smiles. 

Malia relaxes at the sight of him and smiles back.

_._

  
In any given situation, Stiles always thinks it's the waiting that might kill him. It doesn't matter if it’s in anticipation of someone's death or getting fucked for the first time, the knot in his stomach always feels familiar and angry and overwhelming.

He barely even made it through the week. Every night was another descent into sex blogs and porn in an attempt to prepare, each one leaving him breathless and hard and a little scared.   
  
Last night he'd had a long talk with Scott about nothing and everything. His plans with Malia had come up exactly once, when Scott said Malia told him what was happening and asked how Stiles felt about it. 

"Good, I guess," Stiles had said.

"You guess?"

"I don't know. I don't feel bad. I want this. Other than that, I'm not sure."

Scott had fallen silent for a moment and then said, "This is kind of a big deal for you both, right?"

"We've had sex before, Scott."

"Yeah, but not like this."

And the thing is, it feels inevitable, like an extension of who they are together and apart. So it's different but it's still  _them_. 

Stiles has been focusing on that in an attempt to not get overwhelmed by what he agreed to and to avoid reading into what Malia really wants. But now he's waiting in the hall while Malia gets ready in his bedroom and he's been pacing back and forth for about twenty minutes and he kind of thinks he might lose his mind because Scott was right. He was really right. This is a big deal and Stiles doesn't know how to deal.

"Stop freaking out," Malia says, voice muffled through the door.

"I'm not freaking out," Stiles lies.

"You are, I can smell it," she shoots back, voice strangled.

"You don't sound too calm yourself," Stiles points out.

"That's because humans make things unnecessarily  _complicated_  and I feel so  _stupid_ _right now_  and I  _hate it_."

Her voice rises to a yell at the end and Stiles' stomach sinks. He’s always wished he could be more stoic. More like Derek, maybe, or Lydia. Not that he hasn’t seen the pair of them lose it just a little, but it’s almost impossible to tell what they’re thinking at any given time unless they want you to know. Stiles can keep some things to himself easily enough but he’s always had this feeling that he broadcasts more than he lets on.

It could just be that he’s surrounded by people who also happen to be walking lie detectors with noses that can pick up everything from the jizz he thought he’d washed off in the shower to how he’s feeling at any given moment.

He’s been trying to keep it together, the nerves and the excitement and the curious sense of not-known that’s been a tiny source of anxiety since he agreed to this. It’s not fear. It’s not even hesitation. It’s just the knowledge that he doesn’t know exactly what’s going to happen or how he’ll feel about it or what it means and maybe for Malia this is all just easy. Maybe he’s the one making things difficult because he wears his thoughts and emotions on his sleeve.

 "We don't have to do this tonight or, you know, ever. I'm sorry if I made it weird or something."

"No!"

There's a thump and then quick footsteps and then Malia yanks his bedroom door open and stands in the doorway, breathless, hair mussed, and half-naked.

"I wasn't talking about you. You're perfect. I mean, you're kind of an asshole sometimes but . . . Stiles?"

He realizes he's staring but he can't seem to stop.

They've seen each other naked dozens of times by now. Stiles knows Malia's body better than his own and he loves it, the places where it’s soft, where it’s hard, its hills and valleys. He's seen her in her underwear, in  _his_  underwear, in the adorable bikini Kira helped her pick out when they decided to take a weekend trip to Los Angeles.

But this is different, somehow.

He recognizes the black bra she has on. He loves this one because of the way Malia's breasts fill the cups, the swell of them threatening to spill out in a way that always makes him desperate to get his lips on all that creamy skin. The effect is even more potent than its ever been when Stiles takes in the underwear its paired with.

Well. Not underwear. A harness. It looks like the boyshorts Malia prefers - scarlet red, no lace, minimal frills. But it’s the dildo that juts out from her pubic bone that makes Stiles' heart stop.

"Is it okay?" Malia asks. "Did I put it on wrong? I couldn't figure it out."

She shifts her hips a little and the dildo bobs in front of her, secure in the harness and sleek in the hallway's dim light.

"You're amazing," Stiles breathes. "I just, um. I thought it'd be . . . bigger?"

"Oh. The guy at the shop said this is better for beginners." She slips her hand down, curls her fingers around the dildo and cradles it almost protectively. "And I liked it."

Stiles can see why. For some reason he'd prepared himself for the worst - something gigantic and fleshy and frighteningly realistic, maybe. Or, since Lydia'd had a hand in it, something garish and weirdly shaped.

It makes sense that Malia would've gone for something simple. The dildo's slender, short, and black, stark against the red of the harness. It's not intimidating at all and that makes the nervous feeling in Stiles' stomach roll over into pure, adrenaline-fueled anticipation.

Malia's grip on the dildo changes and she gives it an experimental stroke, something slow and purposeful and goddamn  _sexy_.

Stiles looks up and sees her staring at him, lips quirked up in a smirk. Her nostrils flare and he realizes she can smell the change in him. He can feel his dick start to chub up in his jeans and her smile widens.

She can smell that, too.

She lets go of the dildo. Reaches out. Fists her hand in Stiles' shirt and yanks him over the threshold.

"I'm ready if you are," she says, lips brushing against his.

Stiles swallows hard, warm and getting hotter by the minute.

"Ready," he says.

Malia surges forward and kisses him, slower than he expected but deep and dirty, all languid sweeps of her tongue and careful nips of teeth. She kisses him until his knees are liquid. Kisses him back onto his bed. Kisses him out of his shirt and his pants and then she leans back, hair tangled, lips red, breathless.

"You're really gonna let me mount you," she says, voice hushed and more vulnerable than he thinks he’s ever heard it.

"I am."

Her expression is so soft and awed it aches to look at but Stiles can't tear his eyes away. She shifts and nudges her nose against his, nuzzles him gently before she puts her lips to his ear and says, "Roll over?"

Stiles shivers and barely manages a quick nod before she's put him on his belly. 

There's a moment where his feelings get tangled up because he's unsure and inadequate and he  _wants_ , wants to be good and wants to be taken and wants to feel safe. Malia smooths a hand down his back and nuzzles him again, behind his ear this time.

"I've got you," she murmurs. "Okay?"

Stiles inhales deep and then breathes out slow once. Twice. Until there's no space for anything else inside of him except for how he always feels when he's with Malia, something big and warm and painful in the best ways.

"Okay," he whispers back.

He feels her smile. Closes his eyes. Puts himself in her hands and trusts her to give him what he needs.

_._

  
There's been a disconnect for months. Malia's felt like two entirely different creatures, two separate people. The girl and the coyote. The innocent and the murderer. Being human again has been awful and wonderful but she's missed her coyote skin, missed its simplicity, and she's hated every lesson that's tried to pry her further and further away from that.

But like this, she feels like one being. Beautiful. Powerful. Worthy of a mate and a pack and a  _life_. Worthy of love.

She has Stiles stretched out naked beneath her, his skin flushed and damp behind the knees, at the temples, the bend of his arms. He smells delicious, salty-sharp and musk-heavy. His heart is a quick, heavy thud in the relative quiet and her own pulse races to match.

He's pliant and quiet and waiting for her,  _trusting_  her, and it's the most incredible thing she thinks she's ever experienced. 

She trails her mouth down the length of his spine, sucking kisses into his skin and watching him bruise up all pretty and sweet. He arches into her, panting and letting out tiny moans. He grunts when she sits back and presses her thumbs into the marks and a burst of fresh arousal sits heavy on her tongue.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs.

Stiles just moans, long past the point of denying or deflecting. She tells him he's beautiful all the time because he says it to her when they're like this and it's true of him, too. He used to say it wasn't a thing for guys to be beautiful but Malia doesn't care.

Sometimes human rules are just stupid.

She leans down again, her kisses wetter now that she's closer to the base of his spine. She likes when her scent is concentrated here, sticking to his skin and mingling with his own sweat-smell sometimes for days. She licks at a mole so low on his back it kisses the curve of his ass.

He jolts and his scent spikes. Malia trails her tongue over to the dimples at the center of his lower back and then dips her tongue lower, just between the cleft of his cheeks. Just to see.

The response is instantaneous and deliriously hot.

Stiles pushes back, almost instinctive, and whines low in his throat. The arch of his back is sharp, so defined and tempting that Malia feels the first truly insistent clench of her cunt and realizes she's soaking wet and throbbing.

"Fuck, Stiles," she says, digging her teeth into his ass.

He bucks again and she watches his hands fist in the blankets, knuckles going a little white.

"I want to taste you," she tells him, suddenly desperate for it. "Can I? Please?"

" _Yes_ ," Stiles bites out. "There's a condom under the pillow just-"

Malia cuts him off, spreading his cheeks with her hands and taking a moment to stare at his hole, dusky pink and oh so enticing. It clenches under her gaze and that just won't do. So she leans down, ignores his mumbles about hygiene - "You showered pretty thoroughly before I got here," she pauses to say. "I can tell." "God, I can't decide if it's hot or weird that you know that." - and slicks her tongue over that private, fluttering piece of him.

The sound Stiles makes is high and thin, a stream of curses without their consonants, just breathy and desperate. Malia gathers saliva in her mouth and on her tongue, licks again, leans back to look at his hole now that it's wet and starting to relax. A possessive kind of pride fills her and she doesn't bother hiding the growl that builds low in her gut and rumbles up her throat.

Instead she dives back in and loses all sense of finesse - not that there's ever been much of that between the two of them. She licks over his hole again and again until the muscle's loose under her tongue and then she fucks inside.

Stiles nearly shoves her off when he humps his hips back. She growls again and holds him down with one hand, the other keeping him spread for her mouth.

The sounds of sex between them have always been appealingly obscene but this is another level entirely. Stiles can't even string two sentences together. His heart's a skipping staccato rhythm. The noises of her mouth are wet and incessant and she doesn’t want to stop. She wants to make him come just like this, on her tongue and begging for it.

Except that’s not what tonight’s about. Tonight is for  _them_ , for him letting her inside, for her taking what’s being given, and her tongue isn’t enough.

She pulls away and presses a soft kiss to his hole before sitting back on her haunches. She squeezes his ass between her palms while Stiles comes down from the edge of orgasm. Scrapes her nails down his skin to watch it pink up even further beneath the lovely sex-flush that already colors It. Scratches a little deeper when Stiles whines and presses back.

“I’ve got you,” she says again.

She looks from his loose-limbed sprawl to her cock, fake but a natural extension of herself nonetheless, and hears herself make a low noise of her own.

“Can I mount you, now?” she asks.

“Fingers,” Stiles chokes out. “Lube.”

Malia rolls her eyes.

“I know,” she says, pinching his hip. “I can Google too, you know. I researched this.”

“Jesus, that’s  _definitely_  hot,” Stiles says.

She wants to tell him it’s what he taught her. It wasn’t one of their lessons but the first time he nudged her thighs apart and set his mouth to her, licked and kissed and nibbled and sucked until she came, screaming, over and over again, he told her after that he’d done a little research.

“So I could take care of you,” he’d said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know. Make you feel good. Did it work?”

In reply, she’d tackled him to the bed and ridden him hard and fast and relentless.

She’d taken to Google herself before giving him a blowjob but she never told him, too embarrassed and terrible at it to want to admit she’d actually made an effort. But for this she wanted to make  _sure_  she’d be prepared. Stiles has always gone out of his way to make sure he doesn’t hurt her, has treated her body like something precious.

She tries to do the same and is afraid that sometimes it doesn't translate well. She leaves her mark behind in claws and teeth marks. He leaves his in drugging kisses and the thorough, perfect press of his fingers between her thighs.

Tonight she wants to be both, her and him. She wants to show him what she’s learned, what he’s taught her. Give back. And she wants him to feel  _her_  in every touch and every thrust and every breath until he knows he’s hers.

The thought startles her a little, the possessive edge of it sharper and more insistent than normal, and Malia distracts herself by grabbing the lube from where he’d set it out. They’ve used most of the bottle already but there’s plenty left and Malia slicks up her fingers, nudges Stiles up onto his knees, and circles his rim with a fingertip. He’s still loose from her mouth and it doesn’t take any coaxing to get his body to accept one finger.

“More,” he breathes out immediately.

Malia obeys, adds a second and squeezes her eyes shut at the hot, slick heat that surrounds them. There’s something so monumental about being inside of someone else, she thinks, and she wonders if Stiles feels this all the time. She imagines what it’ll be like when it’s her cock inside of him and has to clench her thighs tight.

She fingers Stiles open slowly and then slips in a third finger with ease. She thinks he’s ready but waits for his signal, sliding her fingers in to the third knuckle and back out. In again. Out. She searches around inside, idle and curious until Stiles head drops to his bent elbows and forces his ass up even higher.

_“JesusfuckingChrist_ ,” he hisses out. “Again. Do that again.”

Malia thrusts a couple of times before she finds the right spot and every muscle in his body spasms. She memorizes the successful crook of her fingers and gives it to him over and over, fucking him deep and insistently.

He thrusts back into her hand, body languid and pretty and increasingly needy. The noises he keeps making burn white hot across Malia’s skin like a touch and she feels a sense of pride swelling inside of her, feels like she’s making a claim and doing it _well_.

She leans down and clamps her teeth around the back of his neck. Stiles keens, his arms sliding out from under him until his face is pressed to the pillows, chest flat to the bed, ass held up in the air through sheer, frantic need and the help of her own strength.

She releases his neck and tucks her nose behind his ear. Inhales the damp, scent-thick skin there.

“You smell close,” she tells him, nostrils flared to take in more of the sea-heavy smell of his pre-cum and the rolling, static-like charge of his arousal.

He garbles out something that isn’t even a word. She teases his rim with the tip of a fourth finger and watches the way his head tucks even lower and his whole body shakes.

“If you come now, can you do it again when I’m inside you?”

She fucks him harder. Faster. Wants to make him wait but wants to give this to him, too. He’s so perfect like this, flushed and sweaty, marked up and moaning and letting her take care of him. She wants to reward him, to make good on her unspoken promises, to make him to feel so good he’s boneless and then do it again and again.

“ _Please_ , Malia,” he manages, the words muffled and choked.

She thinks she can smell the salt of tears overlaid with sweat and pre-cum but there’s no pain, just desire and arousal.

“You can,” she decides. “You _will_.”

Stiles nods, mindless and desperate. She nips at the skin of his shoulder and then sucks hard, hooks her fingers and fucks him with a punishing pace. He cries out into his pillow and his hips meet her thrust for thrust. She drags her mouth down his spine, drops a tender kiss low on his back and then sinks her teeth into the meat of his ass as she screws her fingers in deep.

Stiles comes with a cry so jagged and broken she’d think he was hurt if she couldn’t smell the heady satisfaction of him. He’s gorgeous and wonderful and all for her. She wants to say it but sometimes talking isn’t enough. Sometimes it’s easier to speak in other ways. So she worries his skin between her teeth, sucks in a nice bruise while she eases the movement of her fingers into a gentle, steady massage.

She slips her hand around to slide her fingers through the come that covers his belly and chest. Her wrist bumps against his dick, still half-hard. He whines high and tight; she sniffs again for discomfort that isn’t there, but she can tell from the spasm of his muscles and the tired twitch of his limbs that he’s on the edge of pain.

Stiles has pushed Malia to that point multiple times with his clever hands and wicked mouth. Malia likes the way it feels, the allover pins-and-needles sensation of too much. But Stiles isn’t as fond of it. Tends to push her away when his dick is soft and she’s still sucking it gently in her mouth or pull out immediately after coming.

He’s different now, still supple and reeking of arousal and contentment. The smell of him makes Malia want to preen but she’s not done. Not yet. There’s more that she wants, more that _he_ wants, but for this she thinks she might need to be gentle, careful. He’s hers and she’s going to keep taking care of him.

Stiles makes a disgruntled, wince of a noise when she slips her fingers out. It turns into a sigh when she kneels up behind him and slots her cock between his thighs, its surface blood-warm and smooth when she touches the base.

“C’mon,” he slurs. “Fuck me.”

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Malia admits, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades.

He twists his head around and she looks up, meets his eyes for the first time since she rolled him over. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes sparkling with more than just lust. There’s affection, there. That soft look he gets sometimes that spins Malia’s stomach in circles and warms her from the inside out.

“I trust you.”

And that’s it. Those words are too much and just enough all at once. Malia grabs the lube and slicks up her cock. Rests the tip against Stiles’ hole. He twitches like he wants to move and Malia doesn’t want that. Not yet.

She grips his hips between her hands. Holds him steady. Still.

Then, like every instinct in her has been screaming to do since they met, she mounts her mate.

_._

  
Stiles knows what it feels like when the real world ceases to exist and this is nothing like that. This is . . . this is pure omnipresence. This is being everywhere and everything all at once. This is being fully grounded and light as air, a spark and a fire, belonging and claiming.

Sex has always been good. Great, even. But Stiles has scoffed at all of the spiritual shit often associated with it by people like Scott and the more romantic sex bloggers he follows. He’s always thought he’s more like Lydia when it comes to this stuff – pragmatic and realistic. Sex feels awesome and Malia loves it as much as he does so they have a lot of it. End of story.

Are there feelings? Sure. Stiles doesn’t really know how to do things without them. He can’t even dislike people without getting his emotions all over the place and saving their lives a couple of times (with a few notable exceptions).

But with him and Malia it’s never been a star-crossed lovers kind of thing. She’s not his Lydia. She’s not even his Danny, who Stiles can at least claim to have had a crush on for a couple of years. She’s removed from that, their circumstances entirely different, and Stiles has always wondered in secret if that’s a good thing or a bad one.

He’s settled on good recently because it works between them. And he likes her. He likes her a lot. But sex is still just sex – fun and amazing but not earth-shattering.

But this? This is fucking . . . next level.

Stiles already came his brains out once, isn’t even embarrassed about the tear tracks drying on his face because holy _fuck_ , that was the best orgasm of his entire life. His dick is barely even phased, still half-hard through the first slow thrust that brought Malia’s hips flush up against his.

It feels . . . indescribable. Not just having something inside of him, firm and unyielding and filling him up. Nerve-endings he didn’t know existed have been discovered tonight and they’re all firing off at once in a way that’s not quite comfortable. He’s surprised his hard-on has survived being overwhelmed by sensations that border on painful but it’s not just the physical that he’s responding to anymore.

For someone who didn’t believe sex could be a spiritual experience an hour ago, Stiles is having to rethink all of that. Because this is a level of intimacy that goes far beyond the movement of their bodies, sits deeper and shines brighter than that, and Stiles’ whole body is lit up from the inside out because of it.

Malia pauses and drapes herself over his back. She’s smaller than he is but feels bigger like this, like she’s stretched herself out with the sole purpose of covering him up and staying close. She’s a warm press against his body, her weight comforting and solid and he feels, for the first time since the fucking Nemeton - hell, maybe for the first time since Scott was bit - _safe_.

He exhales and leans back into her, lets her take his weight. She presses her face to his neck, nuzzles in that adorably sweet way of hers.

“Wanna keep you like this forever,” she murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear.

Forever isn’t a promise he’s equipped to make but he doesn’t think it’s literal. They’re young. They’re constantly in mortal danger. All they have guaranteed is now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. But he wants to give it to her.

“Malia,” he breathes, rousing his body enough to reach back and grip weakly at her hip. “Please.”

She kisses his shoulder and then rears back. Stiles doesn’t know how to prepare himself for it so he doesn’t, just drops back down to his elbows and relishes the smooth drag of the dildo as she pulls out to the tip and then slams back in.

She doesn’t start slow and easy. She  _fucks_. Each snap of her hips is hard, the dildo filling him up and then retreating in rhythm until Stiles starts to lose himself completely. He’s aware of his body, of the blood coursing through his veins and the sweat soaking his skin and the sensations flooding his brain and making his cock harden and drip pre-cum anew. He’s aware of Malia gripping his hips and forcing him back onto her cock, of her little growls and nonsensical murmurs, of the familiar, heady smell of her sweat and, more distantly, her slick.

But everything else is gone. The mattress beneath him, the walls around him. Stiles is being quickly, methodically fucked into oblivion and he loves every second of it.

“Want you to come again,” Malia says, voice pitched low.

“Yeah, yes,” Stiles gasps out.

He doesn’t think he can do it again untouched. Being fucked feels amazing but the dildo only glances off his prostate every few thrusts which is a good thing. He’s so sensitive he thinks he might actually die otherwise.

It takes strength he wasn’t aware he still had for him to get a hand around his cock. He’s sticky-slick with come and pre-cum and sweat, still spits in his hand wet and lewd for Malia’s sake. She whines deep in her throat and fucks him even harder. Stiles groans and jerks himself off, too far gone to take it slow.

It’s intense. The feeling is just the right side of too much. It helps that he’s distracted, overwhelmed by Malia fucking him enough so that he can coax his body into action. Malia isn’t content with letting him do the work on his own, though. She finds a rhythm that makes his muscles tremble and keeps it up, starts to urge him back to the brink of orgasm.

Stiles is aware that the noises he’s making are ridiculous but he can’t form words, not even to beg. So he moans until his throat is dry, whimpers, rolls his palm over the head and then squeezes himself tighter, jerks himself faster.

“That’s it,” Malia says. “You’re so good, Stiles. So good for me. Are you close?”

He manages a short nod. She holds his hip with one hand and the other finds his hair, sinks in and yanks.

Stiles’s head rears back, bares his throat in a long line. Malia clutches at him desperately, a noise like a howl being ripped from her throat. Her body trembles behind him, hips grinding in hard, needy circles against his while she rides her own orgasm to its peak.

She’s still trembling when her hand leaves his hip and reaches up to cup the exposed length of his throat. She doesn’t squeeze him, just holds him there, leans in to nip at his ear and says, “ _Come_ ,” in a rumbling growl.

The orgasm hits low and hard. Stiles’ whole body jerks like he’s been electrocuted, cock spurting and adding to the mess of his stomach and chest. His muscles spasm and a strangled, hurt-sounding cry erupts from his mouth. He falls forward, can’t even jerk himself through it, just thrusts his hips blindly until Malia’s fingers are there, familiar and firm and easing him through the last of his orgasm.

He drifts for a bit after that, actually out of his body this time but feeling protected despite that. He is, for the first time in a long time, completely at peace with himself. In harmony, maybe. He’s not even aware he’s crying again until Malia kisses away the wetness from his cheeks and then presses her lips to his, chaste and sweet.

“I know where you’re mouth’s been,” Stiles points out.

Malia shrugs all ‘sorry not sorry’ and he realizes he doesn’t care. Not really. He’s boneless and sated and happy and he thinks he might just have had the kind of sex that changes lives.

He thinks he might be in love.

Malia gets them under the blankets but this time it’s Stiles who rolls over, presents his back to her. He slides back into the curve of her body and settles there, interlocking like a puzzle piece. Malia goes still for a moment and then relaxes and clutches him tight.

They don’t say anything. They don’t need to.

Instead, they sleep.

_._

  
They don’t talk about it after but she’s not sure it’s necessary. At least not yet. They said a lot of things with their bodies in a language Malia’s much more suited to understanding and that’s enough for her.

When Stiles is ready, he’ll talk.

She suspects he said  _something_  to Scott, at least. They tell each other everything. Malia knows it’s because they’re best friends but there’s something else that she likes about it, that her mate trusts their alpha so much. It’s important for the pack and feels solid. Safe.

For someone who’s been chasing safety most of her life, it’s a dizzying relief to feel like she’s finally found it.

The Monday after The Sex (Malia can’t think of anything else to call it but capitals should be enough to set it apart from all the other sex they’ve had, including the hour Stiles spent going down on her Sunday morning), Scott flops into the seat next to Malia and looks over.

“So?” he asks. “Good weekend?”

Malia stares at him and a smirk slowly curls Scott’s mouth. Stiles definitely talked to him, then. And, from the scent that tickles her nose, Malia thinks Scott might be proud.

Lydia’s assured her that humans tend to be pretty happy for themselves for the sex they have. It’s like a badge of honor or something. Somehow, Malia doesn’t think that pride comes from the satisfaction of having pleased a mate. But she did. She took care of Stiles and he told their alpha and now Scott’s happy for them both.

That approval feels priceless and Malia ducks her head, tries to hide her pleased smile and probably fails.

Scott reaches out and ruffles a hand over her hair. She swats playfully at him and he just grins wide and turns to his notes, easy as all that. Malia’s still smiling to herself when Stiles walks in, Lydia at his side.

Lydia meets Malia’s eyes, expression impressed, and gives her a slow, exaggerated clap.

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters under his breath, red-faced.

He sits down in front of Malia and she inhales quick. The embarrassment is hard to pick out, overwhelmed by happiness and peace and something else. Something that sparks off Malia’s senses and makes her coyote run giddy circles just under her skin.

And then, without looking up, Stiles tilts his head just so, bares his neck to Malia, and grins.

She pops her claws.

Scott muffles a laugh into his hands while Malia pulls herself together, feeling flushed and fizzy and so very, very good.

 


End file.
